


Made for Loving You

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: ABO [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: ABO, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Mpreg, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Oh, Rimming, Sibling Incest, Smut, Teen Stans, how the fuck did i forget that, i guess, its, oh!, uh, who am I kidding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 22:49:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12492576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: There was a time Ford wanted Stan to feel like a freak, too. But not like this.TLDR; Stan goes into heat and Ford takes care of his brother, because, fuck it, when your brother is screaming at the top of his lungs like he's dying, you're gonna stick your dick in it.





	Made for Loving You

It starts as a fever. Stan is achy and warm. Their mother fusses over him, giving him aspirin to ease the rising fever and chicken soup. Stan has moments where he is fine, ribbing Ford about studying too much, waxing about the Stan-o-War and babes. He’s fine until his face flushes and he begins to sweat even as he grabs his stomach, confused.

            Ford does not sleep well. He is constantly jostled from a doze by Stan’s muttered curses and moans. At first, Ford thinks that Stan is suffering another stomach cramp, but the heated little  _ah, ah, ah’s_  tell Ford that Stan is definitely not in pain. Ford tries to tune him out; he tries to ignore his own arousal. It is only because he is young and virile. Any remotely sexual stimulus would arouse him, regardless of its source. Ford has the decency not to masturbate to Stan masturbating below him. As the week progresses, Stan’s libido picks up but the cursing and rustling and restlessness indicate that Stan does not find relief in his activities.

            This development makes Stan irritable and moody; he’s a hot and cold mess of whiplash reactions. He’ll sit close to their father at dinner, content, only to start an argument about how to eat peas--fork or spoon?--until their mother forces herself between their stoic father and shouting Stan. Stan is sent upstairs to cool off. When Ford quietly finishes his meal, places his dishes on the counter, he braces himself for the wrath of a Stan cornered. Instead, he enters the room and is immediately embraced by a feverish Stan. Ford freezes, flabbergasted, and tentatively places his arms around Stan’s shoulders. Stan is shivering and Ford believes it’s the fever until he hears the tiny, bitten off sobs and the dampness on his neck. Stan is crying. Stan never cries. Stan is physically incapable of crying. He shouts, he screams, he swears.

            Ford is suddenly very, very afraid.

            Stan, after a few moments, realizes just what he’s doing and shoves Ford as far away as possible, through the open door. Stan’s face has contorted into rage, red from anger or crying or both. He snarls at Ford before bellowing:

            “GET OUT.” And slamming the door. Ford is shocked and numb even as their father storms up the stairs and begins shouting about slamming doors and Ford walks slowly down to the kitchen where their mother is cleaning up dinner. The baby is in the highchair, unfazed by the muffled yelling.

            Ford sits, focusing on the clink of dishes and  _splash_  of soapy water.

He begins to think.

            First, Stan is feverish. Second, Stan’s libido has increased but the satisfaction of the act his decreased. Third, Stan is emotionally volatile. Ford’s mind skitters over the obvious answer, the damning one. His face heats and then cools.

            For a long, long moment, Ford is deeply, viciously pleased. Let Stan suffer for once.

            The thought is rushed to the back of his mind with shame, but it lingers there all the same.

            “Stan’s in heat.” He says without preamble and hears his mother freeze. He hears the that the fight upstairs has ceased, the baby is gurgling contentedly. He watches his mother carefully bring up the towel to dry the dish in her hand. She takes a deep, steadying breath.

            “Why do you say that, Ford?” she asks and her voice is tight. Ford looks back at the table.

            “He displays all of the classic symptoms of an...an omega in estrus.” He stumbles over the damning word. Despite his vindication, he would never have wished this upon loud, boisterous, proud Stan. He expects a fight; he expects to convince his mother but she sighs and places the final plate on the drying rack. She takes another deep breath.

            “I know.” She says quietly. Ford startles a bit, then directs his mind back to the task at hand.

            “Does dad know?” He asks, suddenly aware of what could happen to Stan, what their father could do to him.

            “Not yet.” His mother answers, walking over to pick up the baby. She rocks him and the baby doses. Ford follows his mother to the baby’s room. They are silent until the baby is settled and they head back to the kitchen.

            “What do we do?” Ford asks and his mother shakes her head.

            “It’s complicated, Ford. I knew this was a possibility but it’s so  _rare_.” She sounds lost and unsure. It makes Ford even more anxious.

            “There’s medicine, right? To make it stop?” He asks. His mother’s face pinches tight.

            “For females, yes, but someone like Stanley...” She trails off and Ford wilts. “I need to tell your father.” She says. Ford can’t help the flinch.

            “Does he really have to know?” He asks and his mother shakes her head.

            “He’s his son, Ford. He has a right to know.” She reaches out and gently takes Ford’s hand in hers. “We’ll figure this out. But for now, don’t tell Stan.” With that, she stands up and goes to the living room. Ford knows his father is there, staring blankly at the news. She will tell him and Ford doesn’t know what to do. There are too many variables, too many possibilities.

            He trudges upstairs and tentatively knocks on their door. He hears a grunt from the other side and enters slowly. Stan is bundled in his bed, facing the wall and radiating miserable irritability. Ford carefully changes into pajamas and carefully ascends the ladder to his bed. He settles and debates with himself. He wants to tell Stan, to tell him what he’s feeling is normal. Instead, he wishes his brother good night and gets only silence as a response.

 

            Stan’s heat hits well and truly Friday night. Ford doesn’t know if their father knows yet, but he trusts his mother. Ford wakes at one in the morning to Stan panting and groaning beneath him. Ford is annoyed at first by Stan’s insatiable libido until he hears choking cries that has Ford terrified. He rushes down the ladder and stares in fear at his panting, drenched brother.

            Stan is tangled in his sheets. His chest is heaving as he sobs into his arm, his other hand aggressively jerking off a leaking, straining, painful looking member. Ford feels panic welling inside him at his brother’s distress but clamps down on that with vicious clinicism. Stan has not noticed Ford’s arrival and he doesn’t notice his departure. Ford carefully walks to his mother’s psychic “office.” She is not with a client and is idly painting her nails. She sees Ford and looks up, confused and concern. Her face begins to dawn with realization. Ford beats her too it.

            “It’s happening.” He says, toneless. His mother takes a deep breath and begins to walk briskly to the living room. Over her shoulder she says: “Get your brother a glass of water and try to keep him calm. I’ll be there in a minute.” Stanford nods, rushing to the kitchen and then back up to their room.

            Stan is no longer sobbing but he is still palming himself. He’s red and glistening; his eyes are puffy. Ford gulps and carefully enters the room, closing the door behind him.

            “Stan?” He asks, cautiously. Stan blinks slowly at the bunk above him. Seems to shake himself out of his stupor and looks over at Ford. He still seems hazy but seems to realize that he’s groping himself in front of his brother. He turns impossibly redder and Ford is concerned about all the blood that is gathering at Stan’s extremities. Stan scrambles into a sitting position, tugging the filthy sheet over his entire body. Ford has never seen Stan so vulnerable and humiliated. The dark thing in the back of his mind twitches in interest. Ford shoves it away, again.

            “Uh. Heya, Sixer! Thought ya were, ah, asleep.”  Stan is stuttering but gaining confidence. “Hey, yeah, why aren’t ya asleep? Ya didn’t have a nightmare or nothin’?” Stan’s mortification smooths out into concern and Ford is overcome with affection and a fierce protectiveness that is uncharacteristic for him. Instead of replying, he offers Stan the water.

            “Thought you might be thirsty.” He says as Stan take the glass with a suspicious glare. But, once the glass is in his hands he is drinking deeply and greedily. Water dribbles out of the corner of his mouth, dripping to his chest, some sliding down his throat. Ford finds that he, himself, would like a glass of water. A tall one. Stan finishes his glass and puts on the floor as if he hasn’t been scolded for that several times--the room has so many stains by now, Ford finds it's a moot point. The atmosphere is tense as Ford watches Stan try to puzzle out why his brother is bringing him water at midnight and not going immediately back to sleep. Stan opens his mouth and Ford braces for whatever comes next when their mother knocks on the door. She doesn’t wait for a reply, just comes in and takes in the scene. A tense Ford standing a few feet in front of his haggard brother. Her face is pinched until she takes in Stan’s bewildered but unclouded expression. Then she sags in relief.

            “Oh, good, it’s not bad, yet.” She says, mostly to herself, but in the tense silence both twins hear her. They are not soothed. Stan reacts before Ford.

            “What’d ya mean, ma? You okay?” He asks, still so concerned for those around him. Ford feels that affection and fierceness intensify. Their mother just smiles sadly.

            “Ford, honey, can you go downstairs and help your father?” She asks. It isn’t subtle, but Ford thinks he knows what is about to happen and he doesn’t know if he can handle Stanley’s reaction. So, he nods and closes the bedroom door behind him. He hears:

            “Ma, what’s going on? Is everyone okay?”

            And

            “Stanley, honey, I need you to calm down, okay?”

            Ford rushes down the stairs. Their father is dressed and gathering his jacket and a briefcase. Ford frowns, but approaches.

            “Is there anything I can help with, sir?” He asks. His father grunts. It’s not an answer, so Ford stays still and silent. A moment ticks by and then another. Then, to Ford’s shock and near terror, his father gives him a five-dollar bill. It hovers in his father’s hand until he grunts again.

            “Your ma and I are gonna be gone a while. Your brother’s medicine isn’t easy to come by and we need to go to the city. Take the damn money so you don’t starve.” He says, all gruff and impossible to read. Ford hesitantly takes the money. He has no pockets, still in his sleepwear, so the bill crumples in his sweating hand.

            “Why don’t, ah, one of you stay?” Ford asks and his father snorts.

            “‘Cause your ma is the only one who knows what to look for and she’s been drinking. Usually, I don’t care, but city’s a far drive. Don’t wanna have to deal with your squealing brother and your ma, too.” His father says, callously. Ford flinches at ‘squealing’, but understands his father is only gruff on the outside. He isn’t that cruel. He isn’t.

            “How long will you be gone?” Ford’s a little shaky and his father frowns at his lack of firm tone.

            “It’s late, but who knows what will be open. Could be five hours, might not be back til evening.” His father doesn’t shrug, but his voice says it all. Ford nods, the fiver in his hands is hot. His mother takes that moment to descend the stairs, eyes red and body tense. She turns to Ford, first.

            “The baby is asleep and should be like that all night. Might wake up for food, but he ate a lot today. Make sure your brother has enough water and do not touch him.” She says gravely. “And don’t let him touch you. He’s...he’s not in his right mind.” She concludes hesitantly. More softly, she adds: “He’s rather upset.” Ford nods, numbly and his father grunts again. His mother nods to her husband and they both leave after his mother gives Ford a kiss on the forehead and a sweet ‘goodbye.’ Ford hears his father griping about coddling before the door closes. Then Ford is alone in the house with the baby and his little brother upstairs. Oh, Moses, Stanley. Ford slowly checks on the baby--he’s asleep and gone to the world. Ford grabs a drink from the kitchen, sipping slowly from his glass and leaves the money at the table. Then, he steels himself and goes upstairs. His little brother needs him.

            He taps the bedroom door before entering. Stanley mirrors his posture from the dinner fight. He is cocooned in his blankets, shuddering and facing the wall. Ford’s heart breaks to hear his brother cry--and Stan should never cry, he never cries, and Ford feels that strange desire to protect, to fight off everything that is making Stan cry, as it takes hold more deeply. He wonders if this is how Stan feels about Ford. Ford understands, then, why Stan can’t help himself with the bullies.

            “Stan?” He asks softly. He sees Stan still, then curl harder into himself. His brother says nothing. “Would you like me to get you more water?” Ford asks. Nothing. He expected as much. “I’m going to get you more water, okay? You need water.” Ford says as he approaches the bed to retrieve the glass from before. He sees Stan flinch and is simultaneously irritated and hurt. He ignores it and makes another trek down the stairs. He considers his options and fills a pitcher with water. He has a feeling that Stan would need a lot of water. He reaches the top of the stairs when he remembers the tap in the bathroom. He would slap his head if he didn’t have a glass in one hand and a heavy pitcher in the other. He blames it on stress.

            Stan hasn’t moved but his breathing is quick and loud. The room feels tense and the air thick. Ford rationalizes that the early spring heat and Stan’s fevered sweating has increased the room’s humidity.

            “I brought more water if you want it.” Ford says. Stan says nothing but his breath catches before he resumes his near-panting. “Would you, ah, like to be alone?” Ford asks, sensing that Stan’s estrus-stimulated libido was probably arousing Stan. Stan says nothing but a sound like a whimper leaves his shaking lump of blankets. Ford nods. “Okay, well, I’m going to go read in the kitchen for a while. I’ll check on you again soon, okay?” Stan just pants and Ford quickly grabs the first piece of literature on his desk and flees, ignoring the heat in his stomach, the heat on his face and ears. He closes the bedroom door and descends the stairs again (Stan would have made a joke that, after tonight, Ford’s calves would be amazing) and settles at the kitchen table with another glass of water. He settles into the fascinating world of...Pumaman. Ford had grabbed one of Stan’s highly inaccurate and, frankly, scientifically offensive graphic novels. Well, nothing to do. Fords devours the magazine quickly. He admires the art and scoffs over the science. He is about to reread it for further ridicule when he hears something like a wail from upstairs. He is running before he knows what’s happening and is at the bedroom door in time to hear his brother muffled shriek of agony. Ford slams the door open and it hit by several things at once. His big brain breaks down into incremental moments.

            It goes like this:

            First, Ford has never believed that a human could  _smell_  an omega. Human’s simply didn’t have a keen enough sense of smell. But, now, Ford understands because he can  _smell Stan’s heat_. Not in an animal way. But Ford can smell Stan’s sweat and his musk. He can smell the semen already spent. He feels as if he can smell Stan’s desperation and need, but Ford know that is not true.

            Second, Ford has never spun from terrified to arousal so fast. Stan is on elbows and knees, ass in the air, fingering himself desperately. He’s  _wet_  (of course, true omegas are self-lubricating just like most biological females). Stan’s ass and balls are glistening, slick catching his pubic hair, making it dark and gather into wet peaks. His fingers catch the lamplight filtering from the street obscenely.

            Third, Ford has never been this hard in his life and he has certainly never, ever felt this gathering urge to  _protect_  and  _take_  and  _own_  and  _love_. He feels affection so intense he can’t breathe and a possessiveness that is unfamiliar to him but settles on him like a well-tailored, new coat. Unfamiliar but so, so right.

            He stares at Stan. He stares and stares until Stan makes a sound like he’s dying. He crumbles, just a bit.

            “Stan?” He rasps, mouth dry from arousal, from fear, from Stan  _fucking himself on his own fingers with his own slick_. Stan jolts, still fucking his fingers, and looks at Ford with a blank look, drooling. Ford can’t see well in this light, but he knows that Stan’s pupils are blown to hell. Stan whines, still gazing at Ford. Oh, holy Moses. Ford knows. He knows that he will fuck his brother tonight. He is fighting tooth and nail against this but he can feel a pull like gravity; like the polar opposites he and his brother are. As inevitable as dawn and dusk and entropy.

            Because, unbeknownst to the entire world, bar Stanley, Ford is an alpha. He learned this when he was thirteen and curious and fucking terrified when his  _dick started swelling in the not-usual-way_. He had run screaming to Stanley who had laughed and said: “Holy cow, Ford! You’re an alpha! My nerdy brother is an alpha!” And then Ford was laughing with Stanley and he researched like crazy about alphas and betas and omegas. Later that year, Stan grumbled about being a beta and how now he could “never be the alpha-twin.” Ford remembered this and knew that Stan was always meant to be his.

            But, his mother told him not to. Don’t even touch. And Ford wouldn’t fold without a fight. He was a Pines man. They never gave up. But standing here with Stan looking at him so desperately, fucking himself so futilely, panting so loudly. Ford, counter to the Pines’ family motto, ran. He ran to the bathroom. It was quiet and cold and--fuck, he could hear             Stan’s muffled screaming again. He fought the urge to find whatever was murdering his brother and started the shower. A nice, cold shower. He stripped, entered and immediately hated himself as the cold shocked the sharp heat out of his body. His dick softened and damn near retreated into his body. The noise of the poor plumbing and hard water drowned out his brother. Ford tried to relax.

            Tried. Couldn’t. His brother was shrieking and screaming and  _suffering_. Ford could put a stop to that. He could let Stan feel better--good even. Ford moaned at the thought. Of worshiping his brother until his desperate, tortured wails hushed into moans of Ford’s name. Ford imagined what that omega slick would feel like, taste like. He wanted to know. He wanted until his hand turned the water off. Until his body rubbed him down with a towel. He stood numb and cold in the bathroom, lost in his thoughts. It’s quiet. He must have showered longer than he intended. Perhaps that’s why the cold water had tapered to tepid. He grabs a towel to cover himself, his pajamas are dirty with sweat. He places them into the hamper in the corner of the bathroom. He steps into the hall. He needs new clothes. Those are in the bedroom. Stanley is in the bedroom.  _‘Don’t touch him,’_  His mother had said. He shouldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not like this. It was too much like those boys at house parties who got the girls drunk. He heard them talk. The thought turned his stomach. Will reinforced, hearing no whimpering from the bedroom, Ford entered and softly closed the door behind him.

            He moves quietly, hoping Stan is asleep. But his brother is still breathing hard and Ford aches to sooth Stan with a gentle hand and aches to bring him back up to screaming. Instead, Ford opens a drawer and begins to look for clothes.

            “Ford.”

            Moses, Stan sounds  _wrecked_. His voice is more hoarse than usual, almost painful. There’s a breathlessness. Stan has never been this quiet. Ford catches his breath in his throat and starts coughing.

            “Ford.”

            “Yes, Stanley?” Ford asks but doesn’t turn around. He hears Stan grunt and shift. He doesn’t move. If he moves he’ll do something he regrets. (He won’t regret it, though.)

            “Ford.” Stan says again with desperate meaning. Ford can’t discern it, he was always bad at reading people. He needs to turn around and see his brother’s face. He needs to. He can’t.

            “What do you need, Stanley?” Ford keeps his voice even, controlled. Stan makes a sound like a sob or a whimper. It hurts Ford. He almost turns.

            “You.” Stan says softly, unsure. Ford is stunned silently and he is sure his towel is only remaining at his hips because his aching dick wouldn’t allow it to fall. The silence doesn’t seem to deter Stan. He continues, almost sounding confident. “Ford, Sixer, I need you. I--it  _hurts_ , Ford.” Ford makes a high noise and is mortified. Stan grows braver. “I feel like I’m loosin’ my mind. It’s so hot and I’m--” Stan stutters, stalls. Ford is breathing too fast. He doesn’t turn. He can’t.

            “What is it, Stan?” He asks, voice cracking against the calm facade. He hears Stan release a wet, shuddery breath.

            “It’s just, Sixer, when I’m. When it--it  _hurts_.” He stutters, his frail bravado cracking and suddenly Ford’s  _little brother_  is fighting tears, his words broken and hitched and Ford can’t, he turns and rushes to hold Stan. He crashes into Stan, Stan hitting the wall with a muffled grunt and Ford squeezing his brother until they could merge.

            “Tell me, Stan.” Ford urges, gently, one hand carding through Stan’s hair and the other holding him close. Stan is burning with heat and seems to relax against Ford’s shower-cooled skin. Stan begins to speak again, hesitantly.

            “It doesn’t always...h-hurt. But, w-when it does.” Stan takes a huge gulp of air. “I-I need you, Ford. I can’t. I’m scared.” Stan sounds so gruff and small and Ford grips harder. He’s hard, so hard, but he needs to know why. Know what Stan is afraid of. Not him.

            “You’re...you’re not afraid of...me?” Ford murmurs, begs into Stan’s temple. Stan shudders and spasms. He seems to suppress a whine. Ford suppresses his own shudder. He’s so hard, knows Stan knows he’s hard. He knows Stan is hard. He keeps himself still.

            “No.” Stan breathes, barely able to speak. Ford feels that flash of protectiveness that is still so foreign and so right. He needs to know what is scaring his brother. He needs to destroy it.

            “What are you afraid of, Stan?” Ford is surprised with how firm and steady his voice is. He cradles Stan’s head carefully. Stan moans into the sensation. Ford is almost distracted, but he needs to know. He tugs gently and it has the opposite of the desired effect. Stan moans louder, his mouth drops open. Ford lets go and instead rest his hand on Stan’s cheek. Stan sighs and leans into that touch. “Stan?” Ford asks and Stan murmurs a noise. “Tell me what you are afraid of.” Stan stiffens and whines. Ford tilts his brother face to his. He makes contact with those glazed, lidded eyes. He is reminded of those drunk girls at parties. Ford finds that he, too, is afraid. Stan finally speaks.

            “Pops.” He says and Ford stiffens. Stan’s body flinches under him and the hand against Stan’s cheek twitches into a claw. Ford forces himself to relax even as his mind goes to the worst places. His voice, when he speaks, is dark and calm. Stan winces.

            “What did he do?” He doesn’t recognize himself. He doesn’t know why he’s talking so much; he doesn’t know why he feels so angry and possessive; he doesn’t know why he isn’t fucking Stanley into the mattress yet.

            “N-nothing.” Stan says and tries to pull away. Ford clutches him tighter. His arm around Stan’s lower back is a vice. The hand at his cheek is rested behind Stan’s neck. Ford feels something like a snarl and a whine in his throat. He swallows both.

            “I won’t be angry, Stan, I just want to keep you safe.” Ford says, voice rough with how gentle and quiet he is trying to be. Stan relaxes just a bit. Something changes. Stan feels warmer and he is squirming. Ford is alarmed before he recognizes the resurgence of the heat haze. “Why are you afraid of our father?” Ford insists before Stan becomes lost to his estrus. Stan is panting just slightly.

            “N-now. W-when’s like this.” Stan’s voice is getting thick with the Jersey accent Ford purges from his own words. On Stan, it’s perfect and arousing and Ford can barely hear Stan through Stan’s own voice. “I-Idon’t care who, Ford. Could be anyone. I’d-I’d go to f-fuckin p-pops.” Ford freezes. His veins are ice even as his chest erupts in flames because this was his  _little brother_. His little brother was--no. Ford would take care of this. “T-t-trust ya, F-ford.” Stan stutters and moans and Ford loses it. He didn’t know that was what he needed to hear but he needs inside Stan and knows that Stan need him, too. But still, still,  _still_.

            “Stan.” Ford pants even as he pushes Stan beneath him. “Stan, listen to me.” Stan writhes beneath him but his glazed eyes meet Ford’s. “Don’t hate me tomorrow. Please. Don’t hate me.” Ford begs because he doesn’t know if he can stop but he can’t lose his brother. To his surprise Stan seems to sober up, his eyes clear and his face becomes serious as his hands twine into Ford’s damp mess of hair. He drags Ford down until their foreheads touch.

            “Never, Sixer. No matter what. You and me forever.” It’s Stan’s voice, unclouded by lust and Ford moans.

            “Forever.” Ford answers and kisses Stan softly, sweetly. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He bumps Stan’s nose too much; his teeth slip too much. His eyebrow bumps Stan’s hard. But, Stan moans and groans and Ford can’t care about his own virginal lack of prowess when he has Stan. His Stan. He just learns and tries harder. And harder does he try with Stan grasping at him, pulling at his hair, clawing his shoulders, and, memorably, his ass. When Ford yelps and grinds down against Stan’s erection  _hard_ , Stan laughs breathlessly. Ford scowls and nips Stan’s lips on purpose this time. Stan groans and Ford feels both disappointed that his retaliation failed and very, very gratified that he could get that sound out of his brother.

            Ford has lost his towel some time ago. It is humiliating and intensely arousing to have just sheets and sweat between himself and his brother. He finds his hands tangling in Stan’s hair as Stan continues to explore his body. Ford’s skin twitches and breaks out in goose bumps. He feels safe and loved and he wants Stan to feel the same. Boldly, with confidence Ford does not feel remotely, Ford traces a hand down Stan’s chest and stomach, feeling the muscle twitch and jump under him. Stan moans and whines against Ford’s mouth. Ford’s hand glides lower until his fingertips are brushing the head of Stan’s cock. Stan cries out wordlessly against Ford’s cheek. Ford is afraid to take the whole thing in hand, but Stan thrusts up and Ford gently, carefully grasps just beneath the head. Stan muffles whatever sound he is making against Ford’s neck. Ford didn’t know his neck was an erogenous zone until now, his whole body shuddering.

            “Ford.” Stan whines, breathless. He’s glistening with sweat. Ford looks to meet Stan’s eyes, but does not cease his ministrations to Stan’s cock. “F-ford--fuck, Sixer! You gotta--” He moans loudly but Ford sees frustrated tears at the corner of his eyes. Ford rises and kisses them, gently. Stan moans again, high and breathy. “You gotta fuck me, Sixer.” He says at last and Ford’s big, nerd brain--the only true perpetual motion machine to exist (until he makes one) halts. It stutters and short circuits.

            “W-what.” Ford doesn’t so much as ask as state. He knows what Stanley means. He is eager to do so. But, something in Ford holds him back--something between the voice screaming at him about how wrong this is and the other voice screaming about consent and another voice just screaming in frustration. Stan, also, groans with frustration beneath him. His brother is becoming feisty and Ford loves it.

            “Need that cock, Sixer.” Stan says, shameless. An incredulous glance at Stan’s face treats Ford to an embarrassed, aroused,  _honest_  Stan. Ford almost comes. Instead, Ford chokes. Stan grins around the lusty gasps. “Oh, holy Moses, Sixer, need that cock. Fuck, need that fucking kno--” Ford thrusts into Stan’s groin. He wants inside NOW. Stan seems to understand.

            “We need lubricant.” Ford says, trying to sound less like a horny teenager with a willing partner writhing beneath him and more like the adult he is not. Stan’s flushed face somehow gets even redder as he blushes straight to his ears and down his chest.

            “You, fuck I’m. Sixer, I’m already...already wet.” Stan stutters between mortified and aroused. Ford feels a margin of sympathy. But, still, Ford is staring at Stan’s wet, wet ass and balls and pubes and the sheets are a fucking wreck.

            Ford can almost feel the last of his social morals fainting at the sight and going blessedly silent. Ford shudders and remembers,  _he wants to taste_.

            “Turn over, Stan.” Ford says, and, damn, he tried to sound confident but he just sounds needy. Stan’s well and truly into heat, now, and quickly and clumsily turns over. Ford feels another tremor go through his body because Stanley is amazing. He is strong and soft. And  _wet_. Ford wants to taste. He realizes that he can. He does.

            “Holy--fuck!” Stan swears loudly when Ford tentatively licks just next to Stan’s asshole. He feels the sphincter spasm and Ford groans, burying his face into Stan cheek. “Fuck, fuck! S-sixer don’t--!” Ford licks against the hole itself and Stan chokes and lets out a noise like he’s dying. Ford pushes his tongue into Stan and he’s loose--he was fingering himself earlier. Ford goes in easily and Stan is hot and tight and slick and Ford groans again. Stan damn near screams. To his disappointment, the slick doesn’t taste like much. It most tastes like sweat and something thicker than water. Maybe unflavored gelatin? Ford pulls away, kissing Stan’s ass as he does and leans back. Stan whines and shivers and looks back at Ford, confused and desperate. Ford runs a gentle hand up and down Stan’s back, trying to steady him, trying to keep him sane. Stan leans into the touch like a cat and Ford smiles.

            “Can I finger you, Stan?” He asks, still petting Stan. Stan groans again and swears.

            “I’m--ah--already l-loose.” Stan manages to gasp around a groan. Ford nods, though Stan can’t see it.

            “I know, I saw.” He says and Stan makes a noise too high to be a groan. “But, I’d like to, too.” He says and this time his hand goes all the way to Stan’s ass and slips between the cheek, just barely touching Stan’s entrance.

            “ _Please._ ” Stan begs and Ford can physically feel him pupils swallow his iris and he gently presses a finger inside. It’s an easy, warm, wet slide. Stan is right, he’s loose. But Ford wants this and he adds another finger. He pushes and scissors and explores the softness and heat. Stan is unconsciously thrusting back onto his fingers and Ford could come like this, just watching his brother fuck himself on Ford’s fingers. Ford moans and Stan cries out in frustration.

            “Fuckin’, Sixer, stop teasin’ me an’--oh, fuck--fuck me!” He swears again and shudders.

            “Stan--”

            “I need you.” Stan mumbles and Ford is gone. Ford gently pulls his fingers out and gathers some of Stan’s slick on his palm, wetting his own dick. He pulls Stan’s cheeks open and carefully lines himself up--it’s hard with Stan shuddering with need and Ford’s own desperate shaking. He slips the first few attempts and Stan starts swearing at him in an endearingly Stan way. Then Ford slides in and Stan goes completely silent and Ford’s gasps is loud in the sudden quiet.

            “S-stan?” He asks, worry just barely peeking between the haze of lust. Stan spasms around him and Ford moans, head leaning back, eyes shut. When he looks down again, Stan is watching him over his shoulder with a look of contentment.

            “If I’da known I could make ya make those sounds I’da done this sooner.” Stan says and Ford flushes and feels shy, but he’s also furious that Stan can sound so calm. He rectifies this by pulling out and then thrusting back in. If Stan has anything else to say, he can’t find the breath to do so. Ford tries to be steady, but he is young and he has never done this before and he is erratic and imperfect. Stan grunts and whines and SHOUTS. Ford doesn’t stop but he does ask.

            “Stan?” He’s breathless. Stan thrusts back against him in earnest.

            “T-there. There, Ford, there. Again!” Stan’s front has collapsed and he is wailing into his forearms. Ford tries to mimic his previous thrust and it must work because Stan chews into his arm to muffle the animal noise he makes. Ford is young and inexperienced. He feels his climax coming and--oh  _shit_. Ford forgot about Stan’s dick. He quickly reaches around his brother and grabs Stan’s length a little to roughly and awkwardly but Stan screams again, and, shit. Stan thrusts into his hand, onto his dick. He’s moaning and Ford can hear his own name and Stan spasms again and Ford cums.

            He comes for the longest time in his life and he swells and, oh, now he knows what the fuss is about. Stan is so hot and tight and Ford can feel his cum against his still stiff dick and the knowledge that he’s locking his seed into Stanley makes him collapse against his brother and pump furiously at Stan’s own aching length.  Stan cums almost instantly and tries to collapse, taking Ford with him. Stan only moans when his collapse pulls hard at the knot, though, as the owner of said knot, Ford squawks and falls in an intelligent tangle. Stan sighs, satisfied, and Ford can’t help but kiss Stan’s neck and back and, when Stan turns his head to look at his brother with a sleepy kind of affection, Ford kisses that, too. Stan just sighs and hums and chuckles. Ford is high with his love for his brother. He never wants to leave his brother’s heat, he never wants his brother to leave this room. They are safe here. They can be together here. Eventually Ford feels Stan grow restless.

            “Okay?” Ford asks, and, fuck, he’s almost slurring. Stan nods into the bed.

            “Feel’s good, Sixer.” Stan is definitely slurring. “Needed this fer days.”

            Ford’s knot begins to deflate and when he can finally withdraw properly, both brothers groan and Ford watches in aroused fascination as just a little bit of cum and slick trickles down Stan’s thigh. Stan must feel it, too, because he reaches a hand around and shove two fingers in his ass.

            “What are you doing?” Ford is breathless and he can’t, not so soon, but he might fuck his brother again tonight.

            “Wanna keep you here.” Stan sigh happily. “Wan’ you here ferever.” Ford nearly faints. But, with his arousal lessening he is hit with a few, very important facts.

            First, he doesn’t know what time it is. His parents could be back at any moment and they cannot find Stan debauched by Ford’s hand.

            Second, Stanley is in heat. And they copulated. Copulation during estrus typically results in pregnancy.

            Oh, shit, he might have gotten Stan pregnant.

            This thought makes Ford shoot out of the bed and pacing in the small room. Stan grumbles, removes his fingers from his ass and leans back on his elbows to look at Ford, slightly annoyed.

            “Whatcha doin’, Sixer?” He asks, still a little hazy. Ford looks at his brother, pales, and beings pacing in earnest. Then he stops. Pulls at his hair, looks around the room. Finally, he looks at Stan again. Stan is unimpressed.

            “Stanley,” Ford begins and Stan rolls his eyes. “Stanley, do you understand why omegas go into estrus?”

            “Into what now?” Stanley is truly confused and frustrated. “Sixer, just come ta bed, I’m tired.”

            “Heat, Stanley, why do ani--omegas go into heat?” Ford asks again, taking a step toward Stan, because, it’s Stan. Stan huffs collapses on his back, wincing a little when he does. Ford’s frown deepens.

            “Ford, I don’t wanna play school. Though,” Stan looks at him lecherously. “You’d make a hot teacher.” Ford blushes a bright red and almost sputters, but, right.

            “To mate, Stanley. To copulate and become...” He trails off, looks at the carpet and then at Stan’s face. “To get pregnant, Stanley.” Stan looks confused, brows furrowing and then, in slow motion, he realizes what Ford just said. And then, to Ford’s horror, just smiles and pats his plump stomach.

            “Huh. You saying I could be carrin’ yer litter, Ford?” Stan says it like it’s a joke and Ford is between exasperated and furious.

            “Yes, Stanley! Yes! You could get pregnant! Do you know what happens to young omegas that become pregnant? It’s dangerous! You’re too young!” Ford is whispering, heated. Stan just chuckles, fondly.

            “Yeah, but you’d help me out, right, Sixer?” Stan beckons Ford over and Ford, miserably, obeys and lays down next to his brother. Stan takes Ford’s hand and places it on Stan’s stomach. Ford feels Stan breath and curls his finger just slightly into Stan’s happy trail. “I’ll admit, Ford, it’s weird. But, maybe this is the, uh, the _thing_  talking, but, imagine, Ford.” Stan is sweet and a little bashful in this moment. “Me, carrying something of yours inside me.” Stan whispers and Ford near convulses at that. And he can see it. Fucking Stan into oblivion; Stan with a baby bump that Ford put there. Stan nurturing the physical proof of their love. He groans and buries his face in Stan’s neck. Stan rolls to is side to drape an arm over Ford’s side, rubbing his back. “I want, that, Sixer.” He says, quiet and honest. Ford makes a sound like a sob because, yes, he wants this, too.

 

Their parents are gone for the rest of the night and most of the day. They get a call with their mother complaining about how hard it was to get the medicine and their father grumbling about how they had to get it custom. Ford is barely able to play the concerned brother.

            “How’s your brother, sweetie?” His mother asks and Ford flushes but calms enough to say.

            “Well enough to be expected.”

            “You’re doing a really good job with your brother, Stanford. I’m proud of you.” She says and Ford feels a bit of himself wither away but wishes his mother well. He checks on the baby, changing him and giving him enough food to lull him back to sleep. Ford watches his youngest sibling, fondly, but quickly gets distracted when he hears Stan swearing and yelling for him.

            Eventually Ford leaves to grab some food. He wants pizza but Stan begs for burgers with his mouth on Ford’s neck and Ford caves. He’s beginning to wonder why alphas are thought to be so strong when it just takes Stan’s breath on his ear to get him to bend to anything. Stan can never know (Stan already knows).

 

Eventually, Ford makes them both shower. It’s around one in the evening when their parents come home. Their father immediately goes to open the store, irritated that Ford hadn’t done so in his absence, but mollified by his wife's: “Anyone with ears would hear Stan, Filbrick, Ford did you a favor.”

            Their mother brings the medicine to Stan. It calms his symptoms to just overly-horny-teen levels, but sedates him as well.  He’s a groggy, delirious mess that is too happy to see Ford. But, the snuggling is pretty good. Ford is, like any good brother (fuck, he fucked his brother) going to remember this and use this against Stan when Stan pisses him off next. It’s days of cuddling, horny Stan, but then he’s back to his boisterous, loud self

 

Nothing is ever without consequence for Ford.

 

Stan keeps getting fatter and fatter, no matter how hard he tries at the gym; no matter how many hours he boxes. He’s fatter until their father figures out that Stan got knocked up. Which meant that somehow, when their parents were out of town, Stan had snuck out of the house and made it with some random alpha.

            “Probably in some back alley like the whore you are!” He’d bellowed and thrown Stan onto the sidewalk outside. Ford is dumbfounded and scared shitless. Stan looks at him desperately. Ford turns his back as the door is closing--he doesn’t see Stan’s heart breaking.

            Ford goes upstairs and begins to shove things in his school bag. He rushes to the kitchen and grabs all the food that will last. His parents are screaming at each other, the baby is hollering. Ford rushes out the door in time to see Stan slamming the door of the El Diablo shut. Ford runs over and bangs on the door. Stan looks surprised and spots the bag and then gives a watery grin. Ford runs to the other side and climbs in beside his brother. He reaches over and kisses Stan, desperate and deep. Stan grabs Ford’s hair, his sweater. They kiss and laugh quietly.

            “Forever.” Ford says softly.

            “Forever.” Stan promises.

 

**Author's Note:**

> *cracks knuckles*  
> Before I got into this fandom I had three rules: No Incest, No ABO bullshit, No MPreg.  
> Fuck you, Gravity Falls, you beautiful bastard.
> 
> Also, I don't get ABO with like, dogs an shit. When I've been around a dog in heat, she's real chill but the boys around her freak the fuck out. So, I went ahead with a cat's heat, cuz those crazy assholes scream like they're dying and that seems more in line with the ABO universe. Also, I needed some enthusiastic consent. 
> 
> I'm a lesbian or some shit, so if the sex seems weird, yeah, it should.
> 
> Ho, shit, this is also unBeta'd. I'm too freaking embarrassed to ask someone to "hey, read this smut fic I wrote and tell me if it's weird??" but I can post the raw product on the internet for thousands of people to see, I guess.
> 
> The title is from KISS and I'm not proud of it.
> 
> EDIT: Ain't none of y'all tell me about all these damn typoes! I'm a goddamn English major!


End file.
